


Form and Function

by murg



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Dehumanization, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Transphobia, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slurs, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, germany is an emotionally constipated dweeb, italy is invasive, mentions of nazism, typical shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-29 00:41:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3875935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murg/pseuds/murg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Germany is a nation first and a man second.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Form and Function

Form and Function

 

Papers don’t do themselves. And he really can’t complain when he’s helping Hamburg officials sort out tax details for the next fiscal year. He has four personal emails and a fax from Italy that he won’t check, not yet, at least. He’s busy. He can’t stop rubbing his face. He hates computers. He can only imagine how the men he is working with feel. 

They are probably very frustrated. Absolutely frazzled. 

Germany can sympathize with them. Empathize, in a rough sense. It is very difficult to empathize with humans. 

-

It’s not so much a regret as a want. There’s something he deserves. He is bereft.

-

Prussia never lets him rest. Prussia is always there, has always been there, then with a gun, now with a beer. Germany does not revile. Prussia pushes him, pushes him until he tips and teeters, but does not break. Creatures like them do not break. And he is fine, Prussia breathing down his neck, he is fine, Prussia stifling a laugh behind his hand as he stares at him, he is fine. 

He is fine. He was built on blood and iron—Prussia’s blood and Prussia’s iron—and he is not bitter. 

No.

-

When Italy finds out, he is very much startled. Germany is equally so. If Italy were going to find out, he would have done so a long time ago, yes? Or perhaps he had and he does not care. (That has always been Germany's fervent hope.)

Italy looks at him, eyes wide and hunted as though Germany has done a great disservice to him, has betrayed him (and perhaps he has), and he steps away as though a monster is advancing upon him. Italy does not know what to do. It's really quite a shame--neither does Germany.

Germany attempts to take control of the situation, attempts to salvage Italy's image of him. He takes a commanding step forward, legs shoulder-width and shoulders back, and he says, "Stay."

Italy shakes his head and says not a word.

"We shall sit and talk. We will understand this."

There is a great sadness in Italy's eyes. There is a pity in there that makes Germany's gut burn with shame. He tries a different route.

"Italy, please. I am your friend. This changes nothing."

Italy is so much older than Germany. "This changes everything," he says and his voice doesn’t quiver, his eyes aren’t wet. This isn’t some stupid daytime program. This isn’t fiction, this isn’t scripted. He walks out that door and Germany watches him go, feels powerless and hurt and frustrated—no he doesn’t, no he doesn’t—and the door is softly closed with great care and consideration.

Germany wakes up in a very cold bed from then on.

-

They have a bathroom break. Germany takes it. It is very awkward when there are three available urinals and America decides to stand next to him. "Hey, Germany."

"Hello," he replies tersely. Don't talk to me. You are a freakish creature, America. Who talks in the bathroom? Who takes the next-over urinal? You distress me. Why don't you go experience a far-reaching natural disaster and calm down some? But he does not say this. Why would he? It is overly cruel and unbefitting to even think. He chastises himself for wishing such a thing. It is not proper and it is wrong.

Germany hates going to the bathroom. It reminds him that even he is not free from such rudimentary bodily functions.

Pathetic. 

-

Germany remembers. He remembers Prussia having an argument with Austria. (One of many.) They are in the other room and the yelling is coming from Prussia. Hungary and Germany are in the foyer. She is trying to distract him with a game of chess. It isn't working. Germany still hears them, hears Prussia vehemently denying what Austria is calmly accusing.

He moves his knight. Hungary has more of his pieces than he has of hers, but he has managed to create a sort of defense composed of two triangle factions. He is quite proud of this. His chess skills are dismal at best and this is quite an achievement. He knows nothing of the rules of chess or strategy, not yet. 

"Why the hell would I check that? It's none of my business!"

Hungary sees this formation. She could break it. He knows this, even when he is young and knows admittedly very little about chess. She could break it. She doesn’t, though. She moves a bishop to another unimportant position. 

"No! Shut up! He's my brother and I can do whatever the hell I want with him! You're just jealous!"

They're both stalling. Germany moves a rook.

"If you dare insinuate such shit to my face or elsewhere ever again, I shall take it as an affront to my dignity!"

Hungary moves her bishop back.

"I will _end_ you, you pansy-ass _woman!_ Do you hear me? If you ever come near him again, you will wish you were dead!"

Germany stares at the board.

"Now get the hell out of here!"

This is a stalemate.

Austria opens the door and he is stiff and prim and proper and so Goddamn _righteous_ about everything all the time, including when he's wrong. "Very well, Prussia. I was merely expressing my concern for you and your sibling's welfare."

This is a stalemate.

"Like _hell_ you were! Get out of here. You're infecting my brother with your shitty high-class shit and your shitty poise and all your _shit!”_

She could break it, but she won’t. He wonders if she pities him. He wonders why she’s humoring him like this. She has to break it, because he won’t. He doesn’t know how. He doesn’t know how to play chess. 

"Very well. Come, Hungary."

They'll just be stuck like this. The whole game. Which will then be forever.

"Yes, Austria." She looks at Germany, sees him still staring at his pawns, and she awkwardly touches his shoulder. "That was a lot of fun, Germany. We should do this more often."

Why is that such a bad thing? A game forever. Why’s that negative? Damn her pity, he doesn’t care. This chair is rather comfortable. He could do this for quite a while. Eternity is not necessarily unpleasant. 

"Yes. Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Hungary."

He supposes Hungary has places to go, however.

-

Italy is smiles and joy and he tells Germany, "I love you."

And Germany says, "Oh."

"Uh huh."

So Germany says, "Well. You're my favorite person, as well."

And that's really all they have to say. The silence is comfortable. Germany idly considers telling Italy a rather miscellaneous detail of his life, but he decides it can wait forever.

-

Prussia is sullen on a rainy day in October. He is brooding. Germany tries to ignore him, but it is inevitable. Prussia always says something inflammatory when he is in the mood (which is always.) "This is my fault."

Germany's shoulders jerk as he washes a plate. "Excuse me?"

"This. You. The way you are. It's my fault."

Germany must be cautious as he maneuvers through this conversation. "I fail to follow you." He thinks he might get what Prussia is trying to say, but he fears confrontation. Oh, how he fears it.

"If I'd… You know. And if I'd treated you the way you were _supposed_ to be treated, none of this would have…"

And maybe Prussia is just a tad drunk.

Germany tries to save the conversation. He really does, as best as he knows how. “I got rid of your autonomy before anything could come of it. I doubt you were considering the possibility of such a regrettable, deplorable inhumane time, back when you yourself were only a Holy Roman territory.” This is not what Prussia is talking about. That does not matter. Germany is fixing things. This is how Germany fixes things. “I am just as sorry. Truly.”

"I just… I didn't mean to mess up with you. I tried so damn hard to raise you to be fantastic and just _awesome_ , you know? I worked my ass off to make sure you wouldn't crumble like Bismarck said. And of course he was right. Fucking asshole. Fucking politicians. Fucking everything up.”

"You didn't make a mistake of me," Germany says and he means it. 

Prussia's brows knit together and he mulls this over (maybe) and he finally settles on, "Guess it wouldn't have been as interesting if things had gone a different direction."

Germany's lips tighten and maybe it's a smile. The truth is it's not.

-

Italy treats him very differently after that. Germany numbly wonders if they are even together anymore. As far as he can see, there was no official breaking of their more-special alliance. He decides not to address it. 

Italy is still smiles and light in his bones and joy, but he doesn't run into Germany's shower to ask stupid questions anymore. He doesn't sleep in Germany's bed anymore. He doesn't come over on rainy days to ask him how he's feeling. He doesn't ask him to tie his shoelaces anymore. He doesn't hug Germany anymore. 

Small adjustments to his schedule. Germany fills the gaps with running. 

-

His computer screen makes his eyes glaze over by twenty-two. He’s very tired. He hates being tired. He hates feeling tired. He hates this weakness, he hates the way his stomach rumbles, he hates the tremor in his wrists. He wishes he didn’t have wrists. He wishes he didn’t have a face or a voice or anything. He wishes he were just a brain; he wishes everyone else was just a brain. He wishes he could express everything definitely and do the work he has to do. He wishes he weren’t so pathetic and weak and wanting. 

He wishes he would stop falling asleep on his keyboard. 

-

Prussia is very drunk today and he is smiling with teeth and he's laughing and coughing and hiccuping because France said something funny to him and now he's home and he's going to fuck up Germany's day because he says, "You know, it's modern times. Why the fuck you gotta feel like you gotta do all these ‘adjustments’? We’d respect you anyways.”

Germany feels a sickening curdling of his stomach, a drop in his blood pressure. He feels dizzy and offended at the idea. "This is me," he replies. "This is me."

"Yeah, that's _you_ right there. Just something mis--"

"This is me," he says and no, his voice does not waver, it goes no higher, it does not crack, because he is not upset. Prussia is drunk. He means nothing. Why is this affecting Germany so?

"Listen, West, I love you and all, but _Jesus_ , I think about two hundred years of these issues is _enough_ angst or whatever it is you do when you think you're being philosophical."

"This is me."

"Yup. That's you." Prussia looks up at the ceiling idly. "Look at your hands, brother."

Germany glances down at his gloved fists. Gloved fists, hands, hands that exist and only have so much they can do. He sees. The sickness in his gut twists. He feels like a monster. He feels like a brain in a vat, isolated, but that is his fate, he cannot change it, he cannot do anything, it would be improper. It would be improper. This is him. There is a reason. The Lord did this to him. He has no right. No right. It is improper. Prussia is right. Prussia is right, he should just stop, he should just be _content_ , but it’s so far away, he feels like there is a reality he cannot touch and it is tearing him down.

He turns and he leaves. He spends the next two days at either work or their weight set in the basement. He does not speak to Prussia for a week.

Prussia wakes up with a terrible hangover and no bad conscience.

-

He dreams of having dinner with three men: Maximilian, Lutze, and Adenauer. 

“I’m not homosexual,” he informs them, in the dream. “I’d never dream of being homosexual. That’s just not what I stand for.”

And they nod, in the dream, and he does not know much of Maximilian, but he knows much of Lutze and Adenauer, and their approval is very important to him. In the dream, he is not terrified or confused by the horrible match his brain makes by putting these men together. 

“Of course, Germany,” Lutze says very sweetly, in the dream. “That’s not what _we_ stand for, either.” And they all nod, they all nod at him and he is so very desperate for them to think well of him.

“Strictly friendship unions,” Adenauer says. “That’s all you’ve ever done, after all.”

“Yes, yes,” he says and is so grateful, near to tears, that they understand. “I’m a nation, I’m a concept, I’m not homosexual.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Maximilian mumbles and it sounds like they are all underwater. 

“Never dream of it,” he says, kicking away magazines and bones that are under his chair. He’s wearing a pink shirt. He’s sweating. 

“Well, I mean,” Lutze says, “I suppose it wouldn’t really matter, considering your reality.”

“No, no,” he groans. “No, it does.”

“You gonna steal from the Schatzkammer?” someone says. Another voice. Another man he knows, he knows he knows, he. 

“No,” he yelps. “No, no! Never! I am a nation! That’s _my_ treasury! Your treasury is _my_ treasury! Your ideals are _my_ ideals!”

“You’re a dirty little bitch,” Lutze hisses, leaning across the table. 

He trembles. “No,” he stammers. 

Adenauer taps the table. “Why do you value being an independent entity?”

“I don’t!” he cries.

“Dual monarchies,” Maximilian warbles. 

“I don’t! I’m Germany! I’m a nation! A concept! Nothing else!”

“Nations aren’t fucking faggots,” Lutze says. “Do you want to live like Röhm? Filthy and vile?”

“I don’t!” he weeps. “I’m not!”

But they all turn to murmur to each other. 

“Why can’t you just _love me?”_ he cries, his voice hitched high, his face wet and ugly. “Why can’t you just _love_ me instead of _use_ me? Why am I never enough?”

“Because you still cling,” Adenauer says. 

“I don’t _want_ to cling,” he says, wiping his face roughly. “I want marriage of _Form und Funktion._ I want to be what you need. Why can’t I be what you need?”

“Bauhaus had communists in it,” Lutze says. 

Germany wakes up to a very empty, very cold bed. He gives himself a minute and a half to gasp and choke away everything. Then he goes to his office.

-

Hungary and Germany go out to lunch some days. They understand each other even if they don't usually speak of their separate issues. Germany buys lunch because he is a gentleman on most days, but sometimes Hungary is overpowering in her pursuits.

While she is casually requesting their check, Germany finds he cannot stop his gaze from finding his hands. They're in gloves. On the table, loosely curled around utensils already used. They had been in here for a few hours. Talking. Eating. Drinking. Watching people. Doing what is normal. Being normal. 

"How are you and Italy?" she asks.

He shrugs. "Our alliance is fine."

"That's not what I mean."

"I know."

"So?"

He looks out the window. He is too weary to form an expression. "He has found out. There are alterations in our encounters now."

She nods to this. "I'm sorry." She is. Germany can see it. 

"I don’t know how to confront him on his behavior."

"Knowing you, you've been _avoiding_ it."

He looks at his wrong hands. "Austria was right," he mumbles.

Her hand is over his. Small. Small on small in small world. Everyone and everything is so small. What is the use of being a nation if one only has the capabilities of a person? It is all of the consequences with no benefits. "Don't say that." Her voice is angry. He cannot look up. "Don't you dare say that. Austria has an _opinion_ and that's all."

Germany stares listlessly at their hands.

-

He is giving a presentation to the European Union. It has gone, so far, without incident, which is fantastic. Germany still has plans A through Omega ready, however. Every time he blinks, he sees the computer screen.

He feels so very weary.

"And with substantial budget cuts to various previously mentioned infrastructure, our aid to our friend Laos should progress far more steady," he concludes his speech and steps from the podium. No one claps or tells him what a good job he did, comments on many sleepless nights with statistics, comments on many more sleepless nights with other statistics. Nothing. He takes his seat. England rises and speaks of the economy. It is cohesive. Germany takes notes accordingly. 

When the meeting is over, he approaches Italy. "I believe it is necessary to speak with you," he says.

Italy is startled and blinks at him. Had he forgotten Germany exists? Odd. No, that's paranoia. Illogical. "How so?"

"I believe there is a schism in our interpersonal relations caused by various misunderstandings that must be mended for the sake of our continued alliance."

Italy's brow furrows and he is considering Germany's proposal before saying very slowly, "Okay. Talk."

Almost everyone has filtered out. "Should we go to--"

"No. Right here. Right now. Talk."

Germany opens his mouth and nothing comes out.

Italy sighs. He places a hand on Germany's bicep. Germany hates it. He hates it when people touch him without permission. Even Italy. "Germany."

"Hm?"

"I don't know you."

Germany does not know how to reply to that.

"Do you know what that's like?"

"No." He is not sure if he is being honest. 

Italy keeps sighing. It makes Germany's stomach twist. It makes Germany feel wretched. The brain in the vat screeches at the flesh monster. “I told you I love you. Do you remember that?"

"Yes."

"Many years ago."

"Twenty-six. Yes."

"I was talking to an apparition."

"I do not follow you."

Italy looks up at him, right in the eyes, and that's scary. "I was talking to who I thought was you. But it's not you. You're _you_ and…" Italy is quiet for ten seconds. It is unsettling. "You're not who I thought you were."

Germany scowls. "Because of _that_? If it bothers you that much--"

"Yes!" Italy's jaw clenches and it occurs to Germany that Italy might be angry. "Yes, it does bother me that much! You _lied_ to me, Germany! Not just me--everyone! Japan, America, France! You lied to us all."

"I didn't lie," Germany informs him. "I just never told you."

Italy's grip on his arm tightens considerably. "Why? Why do you hide this?"

"I'm not hiding anything." There’s a mania in his chest, a horrible helplessness that arises whenever Austria gives him that _look_ or Prussia _grins_ or Hungary lays her small hand on his. He cannot prove the truth. He did not lie. He is not an apparition. He is not, he is merely an isolated mind trapped and reviled.

A questioning silence. 

Germany may as well. "This is me. This _is_ who I am. I am showing who I am. What you…saw, it was not me. It was a side effect of an error."

Italy looks at him real strange at that. His eyes are brown. Germany thinks they're nice because they don't remind him of mud. "Nature is an error?"

"Yes."

"God, Germany, we're all only people."

"No. We are nations."

"Sometimes."

Italy is much older than Germany. Germany hates it when Italy is serious. It is disturbing, far too disturbing. "Italy. It's a minor detail. It's nothing."

"Minor detail? It's _who you are_."

"It most certainly is not," he says and his voice is cold. He feels dead, at that. He feels dead. He feels a great hollowness. He feels like a doll with its stuffing sliding out. No one notices. No one is ever going to notice. ”You do not understand."

Italy takes a thoughtful step back. He is sizing Germany up. Germany wishes this had never occurred. "No. I suppose not."

"I… I am a man, Italy. When I'm… When I'm not working. I am."

Italy is searching him for something. "I keep thinking you're confused, but maybe I am. I'm trying, Germany. I've been thinking a lot about you. You're an enigma."

"Are we… Are we, er, together? Still?"

"Do I have to answer that, Germany?"

Germany does not reply.

Italy gives him a pat and a smile that makes his heart break and says, "I'll be seeing you, okay? I'll come over sometime. We'll have lots of fun, ve."

Italy walks out the door and Germany watches him go. He does not attempt to stop him. Why would he.

-

Austria doesn’t know jack shit. Austria thinks he can just quantify every thing under God’s sun and explain it away, whisper gossip with the Habsburgs while Germany fumes in climbing embarrassment, Kaiserin Sisi glancing at him with inquisitive eyes from across the ballroom, he wants to throw up, he hates these fancy clothes, he hates how they don’t fit right, he _hates._

Austria thinks he is confused. Germany is too angry to correct him. He hides away from his uncle, goes and trains with his brother and talks of manly and exciting things with him. He has fun with his brother; he _enjoys_ his brother. His brother is his hero. 

-

"I… I am considering foregoing any further altercations," he informs his brother one day. It is a Sunday morning. Prussia spews coffee all over his newspaper. 

"Excuse me?" he chokes.

"Altercations. It has been suggested to me before, by you and Hungary. I resisted some, I admit, due to what may very well be misplaced reservations. I have always considered them, be it medically or…magically, I suppose. However, halting or possibly reversing this unnatural process may put me in good graces again. There is the Italy dilemma that I must rectify and I see this as a possible solution."

"The hell, West? You're fine the way you are. This is what you are. You can’t help the errors. You've said it a million times."

"I know."

"Don't change yourself for Italy." His voice is suddenly intense. "Don't. You'll regret it forever."

"I know."

"So _don't do it_ if you don't want to."

"Thank you for your opinion, brother. I respect it very much."

And it almost makes up for that day. All the days. 

-

"Germany?"

“What?" he grumbles.

And there is Italy, bright-eyed and awake at two in the morning. "Can we…?"

"Not tonight, please."

"Oh. Okay." Italy rolls onto his side of the bed. 

Germany falls back into a relieved sleep.

-

Prussia is so very confused when he learns. "Faggot," he calls him. "You fucking faggot."

It hurts. It smarts Germany in an undefinable area. It doesn't matter. 

"Hell, you're not _even_ a faggot. You're less than a faggot. You're a… God, what _are_ you?"

"I am Germany," Germany informs him. "I am a man."

Prussia gives him this real strange look at that. He is very quiet before he says, "Yeah. Yeah, I guess."  Something in his tone is all wrong. He is confused. "You're, uh, you're my little brother, yeah. Uh. Shit. West, I want to be all supportive or whatever, but what the _fuck?_ I can't… I need to think this over."

"Of course. Please do."

Prussia spends the better part of the twentieth century thinking it over. In the end, he deems it to be one of those "things about West we generally don't discuss" and leaves it at that. 

Germany could not be more grateful.

-

Kaiserin Sisi staring at him from across the ballroom, women staring at him, judging him, he hates it when women look at him like that, he hates how they’re so curious, they’re appraising him as less than his brother, he can feel it, he’s still so short, so much shorter than his brother, so small and thin and delicate, too delicate, it hurts his brain to consider it, the delicacy in the curve of his own neck. 

When the men look at him, he is just afraid. He creeps into his brother’s shadow and pretends to sulk instead of quake. He wishes none of this mattered.

-

Germany thinks, when Italy keeps his word and comes over the next week, that he may actually love Italy so much it hurts him. He wants him so much it aches. It is painful to know they cannot be for one rather ridiculous reason in Germany's mind.

"I want to see," Italy says when they are eating in the kitchen. They are sitting side by side at the counter. Germany has missed pasta, after a fashion. "I want to see you."

"You are seeing me."

Italy doesn't look up. "I want to see the error."

His breath is hard to get out. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”

“Is it?”

“Truly,” he informs him. 

Italy put his head in his hand. “I’m sorry,” he says. “This is just very confusing, for me. I asked everyone about it, but no one had an opinion. Not even Vatican. No one, at all.”

“You told them about me?”

“Not you,” Italy says. “No, I was just. Trying to learn. You’re something new. I haven’t dealt with new. Not in a very long time.”

Germany feels so very young, at that. Naked and terrified and isolated. He takes a swig of beer.

Such an intensity in Italy's glare! Is he trying to see something? "I always see you in underwear or tank tops or. I can’t figure it out, and I truly am sorry, Germany. I truly am, or I suppose I should be, but I guess I just don’t know enough to be sorry. I never…"

"It's not there," he informs him. “And it’s none of your business. It’s no one’s business.”

“Was that healthy?”

Shrugs. "I'm fine."

"You're very tall."

"Yes."

"How're you so strong?"

His lips twitch. "I train a lot." Such superficial bullshit. 

"You take something, don't you?"

“I don’t think that’s any of your concern.”

Italy's eyes trail down. Germany knows what he's trying to envision. He is too tired to feel any anger or shame. Not even disappointment, anymore. Simply tempered patience, worn down and dusty like old leather.

“Nor is that.”

"Ah."

The silence is not uncomfortable. It confuses Germany. 

“So you’re like.” Italy pauses, face scrunching up. Germany feels a pang of panic, that it is out of disgust. Revulsion. Laughter. “You’re like an amputee.”

“I wouldn’t call it that, necessarily.”

“But you’re sick. Very sick? Or. Vatican told me men are men and women are women. That we can’t change it.”

“He’s right. We can’t. I couldn’t change this. Nothing could change this.”

“So you’re not sick. You’re just…”

“There was an error,” Germany says. “Somewhere. My mind is who I am, and my mind is clear. But there was a horrible error.”

“And you still do all the things you do. Even with…the wrong body.”

“Yes. I have to. I’m a Nation.”

Italy nods at this. His face is smooth, no acceptance on his skin, but willingness. Willingness is there. His eyes catch Germany's. "You're a good man, Germany."

And that means a lot. 

Germany feels a hollowness and a great pride all at once. "Thank you."

-

Germany is a nation first and a man second. 

He is never a woman.


End file.
